


Fictober 2018

by Willia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Fictober, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, fictober18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-23 12:33:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 14,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16159052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willia/pseuds/Willia
Summary: A collection of prompts on a whole lot of characters and topics!More info and specific content warnings are in each chapter's summary.





	1. Can you feel this?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian Hawke's parents have a surprise for her.

“Marian, come here!”

The little girl drops the stick she was using to hit the nearby bush, worried she’s in trouble. When she looks up, her dad is standing in front of the door, a big smile on his face. Not in trouble, then.

“Come on, we have a surprise.” He extends a hand, and she grabs it. They walk into the small house, where her mum is standing by the table, one hand on it and the other on her hip.

“Here.” Dad kneels behind Marian and grabs one wrist in each hand. He pulls them up to Mum’s stomach and splays her fingers, before letting go and sitting cross-legged to the side.

“Can you feel this?” Mum’s voice is but a whisper. Marian closes her eyes tightly, small fingers digging into her belly.

Thump.

She steps back with a gasp. Dad’s hand lands on her shoulder and squeezes. “You’re going to be a big sister, Marian!”

“I’m growing you a little brother or a little sister,” adds Mum.

Marian looks down. She tangles her fingers, twists her wrists. “Can I choose?” she finally asks in small voice.

Dad laughs. “I’m not sure that’s how it works, honey.”

Mum kneels in front of her, ruffling her hair amicably. “I can always try,” she says.

Marian’s face lights up. She leans forward, and she whispers like a secret, “I want both.”


	2. People like you have no imagination.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke gets help from two flirty rogues on a mission...

Zevran stretches his neck carefully. “I am enjoying my break here in Kirkwall, do not get me wrong,” he smiles up at Isabela, who winks at him, before turning to Hawke, “but you still haven’t told me why you required my help today.”

“I thought you might enjoy the exercise and the coin,” says Hawke. “Isabela said you were good.”

“Indeed I am. Why are we here?” he waves a hand towards the busy marketplace.

“Varric got a tip. This guy–” he nods towards a human merchant across the square– “is into some dirty tricks.”

“How dirty are we talking?” Zevran asks with a grin, and Isabela snickers.

“Dirty like people trafficking. The shop is just a front.”

The smile falls off Zevran’s face in an instant. His hands go silently to his sides, where Hawke guesses he’s got concealed blades. Isabela shifts her weight to her main foot, face hardening. Hawke extends a hand. “Wait.”

Isabela looks incredulous. “What do you mean, wait? We slice the pig’s throat and call it a day.”

Zevran nods gravely. “I’m with the pirate here.”

“We can’t just jump him. He knows I’m coming for him, and the second he sees us he’ll be gone. He won’t risk getting caught...”

“...he’ll kill everyone before that happens,” completes Isabela.

“Exactly.”

“We need a distraction, then,” muses Isabela. “Something to keep him busy so you can get closer.”

“I’ve thought about it, but Aveline said she’d have me arrested if I set fire to a single more banner.”

Zevran sighs wistfully, looking up at the city banners. “Shame...”

Isabela’s face lights up with a sly smile. “Oh, Hawke... People like you have no imagination.” She adjusts her belt, loosens the lacing of her shirt and pushes her boobs together. “Watch and learn.”

Without waiting for an answer, she saunters towards the merchant, hips swaying more deliberately than usual. Hawke shakes his head. “Really?” He asks, more to himself than anyone else.

Isabela, meanwhile, has reached the merchant’s stall. She slowly bends forward, pretending to be in deep thought about some piece of jewelry.

The small man looks vaguely irritated, which is a rare occurrence around Isabela when she is doing... Whatever it is she is doing. Asking questions that are probably obvious, and then laughing far too much at the answer, exposing her cleavage freely to the poor man.

She picks up a chunky necklace, admires it for a while, and then drops it into the dust. The merchant seems to grow more annoyed, and tells her off even as she slowly bends forward to pick it up, her bottom strategically positioned.

“If you’re not buying, leave my goods alone!” Hawke hears him yell, face red with anger.

Isabela gives up. She makes her way back to Hawke and Zevran through the crowd, her lips pursed.

Zevran opens his arms. “Oh, _mi sirenita_!”

She dodges him. “Don’t say a word.” Isabela sounds genuinely threatening.

“Bella.” He extends a hand towards her, and when she looks up he strokes it down her hair. Isabela relaxes.

“You were perfect, Bella. In truth, I do not think any woman could ever turn his eye.”

Isabela makes an inquisitive sound. Zevran steps back, winking at Hawke. “Watch and learn.”

Hawke waves a hand in a vague movement of agreement, not even protesting this time when Zevran adopts much the same attitude to make his way to their target.

He acts a lot less directly than Isabela, choosing instead to check out the next stall over, and then one to the side. He takes his time at each one, taking random objects to observe them patiently, before putting them back down. By the time he finally turns to their target, he’s got his full, if discreet, attention.

He leans forward over the stall, and his shirt falls somewhat open.

Then, to Hawke and Isabela’s surprise, he gathers it up against him quickly, looking convincingly embarrassed. He steps back and stumbles on an invisible rock, before turning back towards his companions.

Hawke steps forward. “What-“

“Waiiiit.” Isabela smiles widely, a hand splayed on Hawke’s chest. “He’s going to pull this off.”

Hawke squints at Zevran, who’s adjusting his shirt with sharp movements. Just as he starts walking back towards them, the merchant’s hand grabs his shoulder. Zevran applies a shy smile on his face and turns to face him.

Hawke laughs incredulously. “Holy shit.”

“Yessss.” Isabela lets go of him. “Told you he could do it. Zevran’s a master at making them think it’s their idea.”

“I’m impressed.” Hawke plants his hands on his hips, watching Zevran following the merchant behind his stall and listening with faked interest to whatever he is saying.

“You should be.” Isabela tugs sharply on Hawke’s sleeve. “Now quick, before your distraction ends up in bed with a slaver.”

“Oh yeah, shit, right.”

 


	3. How can I trust you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warden Tabris has a little chat with the assassin who just got sent to kill her.

By the time everyone was bandaged up from their recent encounter with the Crows, the night had fallen. The moon was almost full, and it was casting shadows on the parts of camp that weren’t illuminated by the fire.

In one of those shadows, there was the leader of said Crows. He was sitting beside one of the tents, his hands drawn tight behind his back by leather bounds. He looked bad. His lower lip was busted, his left eye swollen, and there was a cut on his cheek. Maker knows what other injuries he had under his clothes.

But despite how much pain he must’ve been in, he hadn’t moved since they’d set him down there, barely looked around. To anyone who wasn’t an elf, he’d almost have looked… bored.

But Keerla Tabris knew better. She was familiar with the advantage that their heightened hearing offered on other species – especially humans.

Humans never seemed to realise that whatever they were whispering from the other side of the street, elves could hear it if they just paid attention. They often didn’t, though. Whispered insults are still insults, and rarely useful.

So the Crow – Zevran – wasn’t bored, as Alistair, Leliana, Wynne, or Morrigan could have believed. No, he was listening. Keerla saw his ears twitch forward a few times, whenever his existence was mentioned during dinner. The smallest of movements, the accidental kind, that one would miss unless they were paying close attention.

Which Keerla was.

She didn’t stop the conversation though, nor did she ask her companions to lower their voices – after all, having to explain the reason for her request would mean revealing her own advantage. And if there’s one thing that Keerla had learnt from the alienage, it’s that she should never give up an advantage.

“I can clean up your bowl, if you want.”

Keerla looked up. Alistair was standing in front of her, hand extended and expression grave. “I don’t really want to do the interrogating,” he added in a whisper with a nod towards Zevran.

“I’d appreciate that, Alistair, thanks.”

She gave him her empty bowl while getting up. She cracked her neck and knuckles, and adjusted the leather hair tie she wore to fight.

Deep breath.

She turned towards Zevran and marched decidedly in his direction. His face immediately lit up. “Ah, my wonderful new master pays me a visit! Say, could I have some of that meat you and your companions were sharing? I do not mean to impose, but I couldn’t help but notice that delicious smell of–”

Keerla crouched in front of him and gripped his hair firmly. It didn’t affect his wide smile, but it did shut him up. She grabbed a knife from her lower back with her free hand, letting it hover between them with its blade pointed at Zevran. “How can I trust you?”

He chuckled, ignoring the knife altogether. “Isn’t my word enough? Surely a beautiful lady such as yourself has learnt to respect a gentleman’s promise.”

She moved forward in a flash and pressed the point of the dagger to his throat. “How can I trust you?” she repeated between clenched teeth.

He swallowed against the cold blade, smile unwavering. “Ah, I see, you use your mouth to bite more than to smile. You should give it a try, though, it can be rather useful.”

She yanked his hair back. “My patience is running thin and I _will_ cut your throat if you don’t give me a good reason not to.”

She wouldn’t have. Or maybe she would have. She was still unsure of where her morals were. She’d killed to survive before, of course, but how justified would this death be? “I’ve seen you listen to us,” she added in a whisper.

Zevran moved forward despite the harsh tug at his hair, and said on the same tone: “And yet you didn’t tell the others. Interesting, don’t you think? Do you not trust them?” He glanced at Keerla’s companions, who were chatting by the fire.

She unconsciously loosened the tug at his hair. “You shouldn’t ever trust humans. Not fully,” she said.

“Never lose an advantage, hey? I am familiar with the idea.”

Keerla squinted. “If you expect me to trust you just because you’re an elf…”

Zevran laughed happily, as though he was in an inn having a fun chat with a friend. “On the contrary. Never do that. Where I come from, elves are as traitorous and deadly as humans are in your alienages, or so I’ve heard.”

“What’s your case, then?”

Zevran blinked slowly, like a cat in a familiar situation. “You’re a survivor, clearly. You can handle yourself. What danger could I possibly be to you?”

She scoffed, incredulous. “Your argument is that you are weak.”

“My argument is that _you_ are strong. And that my best bet to survive is to stick by you. I would not harm you now, such rash action would only shorten my own days.

Keerla thought for a moment.

At the very least, another pair of blades would be useful in fights. And if he ever decided to turn on them, well… He was more than outnumbered.

Zevran sighed and winced ever so slightly as she let go of his hair. She flipped the blade in her hand and sliced the leather bound that held his wrists together.

“Thank you.” He rubbed the reddened skin with the pad of his thumb. “I usually prefer to establish watchwords before I engage in any kind of tying up.”

Keerla ignored him. “I’ll keep an eye on you,” she threatened.

He flashed his teeth at her, a twinkle in his pale eyes. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find more about Keerla Tabris over [here](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/keerla-tabris)!


	4. Will that be all?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor Lavellan officially hates Orlesian balls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iyandrar is my canon Inquisitor, and you can find more info about him [here](http://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/iyandrar-lavellan/)!

Creators know whether that’s a high society or an Orlesian thing, but Iyandrar discovered the evening of the Winter Palace ball that he wouldn’t get peace that easily, not even once the festivities were over. He had been accompanied to his allocated bedroom by a masked servant, who had then proceeded to spend at least an hour making sure the guest of honour was comfortable.

And warm. But not too warm. And that he had all the tea he might want. And wine, did he want wine? What about paper and ink, in case of urgent correspondence? And was he certain the pillows were to his convenience? Question after question after question, when Iyandrar wanted nothing more than to crash and sleep for a good two weeks.

Eventually, the elven servant stood by the door, back stiff in his golden-threaded clothes. “Will that be all, Lord Inquisitor?”

“YES!” Iyandrar shouted, before clearing his throat and continuing in a calmer voice: “I mean, you’ve done more than is necessary, you can, um, take a break. It’s all good.”

Thankfully, the servant got the message this time. He bowed low and left the room in silence, closing the door behind him. Iyandrar sighed in relief, turning to the very appealing bed, when he heard the heavy door swing back open and close again. He felt the will to talk to anyone ever again physically escape his body.

He spun around with a decreasingly-convincing smile, ready to reassure the servant that yes, he was _absolutely certain_ the curtains were to his taste, but–

“Dorian! Thank the Creators it’s you!” He leaned forward, not putting it above the Orlesian court to be listening at his door. “I can’t stand this for a single more second,” he confessed in a murmur.

His boyfriend was wearing the fanciest black clothes Iyandrar had ever seen, a golden scarf thrown carelessly over his shoulder, and a drunken smile. And, of course, he looked gorgeous. He bowed and captured Iyandrar’s hand for a kiss. “Ah! Lord Inquisitor,” he said in a mock Orlesian accent, “you must meet my daughter, she has a comfortable inheritance and a pleasing face!”

Iyandrar grimaced. “You heard that, did you.”

“Inquisitor!” continued Dorian, walking around Iyandrar and making him whirl to follow, “Tell us, what is Andraste’s message to Orlais?”

“Have mercy,” Iyandrar begged.

“Inquisitor…” Dorian wrapped a hand around Iyandrar’s body and pulled him close. He added in a whisper, losing the faked accent: “I heard terrible rumours about your personal relationships…”

Iyandrar matched his tone. “I wouldn’t want to shock you, Monsieur, but I do happen to be dating a very handsome Tevinter mage…”

“Umm?” Dorian said encouragingly.

“…who sneaked into my bedroom even though Josephine strictly forbade it,” Iyandrar finished.

“In my defence, I missed you terribly. What’s a man to do, when his beloved is swarmed by attention that should rightfully be his?”

Iyandrar kissed him. He tasted like expensive wine and those fancy hors d’œuvres they’d been served throughout the evening. Dorian’s hand slid across his chest, his ribs, coming to rest on Iyandrar’s ass and pulling him closer.

Iyandrar broke the kiss. “As much as I’m liking the attention, nothing you say or do right now is going to keep me from spending the next fifteen hours in that bed.”

Dorian pouted. It was ridiculously adorable, something that he’d never do sober, so Iyandrar kissed him again. “C’m’on. Let’s get some rest.”

Dorian sighed deeply and climbed onto the tall bed. “If you insist, Amatus.”

“Trust me, you’ll thank me tomorrow. You should also drink some…” He whirled around, searching. “…water. They. They didn’t give me any water.”

Dorian spread on the smooth bedsheets, lips curling in an amused smile. “Well, you know how to solve that problem.”

“No,” Iyandrar warned.

“You just have to call a servant.”

“Fen’Harel’s ass I will.”

“Amatus…” Dorian crawled to the foot of the bed and perched his chin on his hands, looking up at Iyandrar through smudged inked eyelashes. “You wouldn’t let me get dehydrated, would you? Not to mention the _terrible_ consequences such a treatment would have on my skin!”

Iyandrar’s shoulders fell. He shook his head, but there was a smile on his lips. “You owe me.” He walked to the door, opening it just enough to see down the hallway.

“I’m sure I can think of ways to repay you,” he heard Dorian drawl behind him.

Iyandrar laughed. Oh, the trip back from Halamshiral was looking a lot more fun than the ball itself had been.


	5. Take what you need.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freshly escaped Fenris looks for supplies.

It had been four days since Fenris had escaped from Danarius. Four days, a single meal stolen from a distracted human, and many blisters on his naked feet.

He needed to get out of Tevinter territory, and quick. He doubted he’d be out of Danarius’s reach there, but at least having to avoid the law would certainly slow him down.

In the meantime, he needed supplies. And he couldn’t just show up at a shop. Fenris had heard enough stories of runaway slaves who’d gotten too desperate for food, and had ended up visiting market places in remote villages… But no matter how remote, a slave got recognised in Tevinter. And the bounties were always too tempting to Soporatis who happened to recognise fugitives.

So he’d found a house. It was nestled against a hill, far from everything, and a woman lived there alone. Fenris had remained hidden in the nearby bush for several hours, observing the comings and goings, to be certain of that. The woman was old, her hair grey and her back slightly hunched. Fenris wondered why she’d choose to live here, so far away from any form of protection.

To him, though, it was a blessing. He didn’t plan on getting caught, but if he did, he preferred his chances if it happened here rather than in the middle of a guard-filled town.

When the sun was at its highest, the woman left the house and went into the nearby field to tend to it. Fenris seized his chance. He silently made his way well around her and towards the cabin.

Making sure the old woman was still far in the field, he pushed the door and sneaked inside. It was small, but well lived-in. A table, two worn chairs, a bed, and a big chest were the only furniture. The fireplace was unlit. The small bed was covered by a faded red blanket, thick and warm-looking.

There were carrots on the table, as well as a small loaf of bread. Fenris grabbed them all and added them to his bundle. Was that his lot now? Would he have to steal anything he needed? He’d never needed to steal, when he was under his Master’s protection…

He shook his head firmly. “Libertas supera opulentus,” he reminded himself in a murmur.

He looked around the cabin. Some kind of fabric would be appreciated, so he could finally bandage that two-day-old wound on his arm that was starting to look bad. It had been careless of him, really, to let the exhaustion take over and make him tumble into that river. He could find healing herbs on the way, but without a bandage to keep them against his skin…

There. On the bed, a grey rag. It’d have to do. He crossed the room to grab it, but the door swung open and shut again before he could pick it up.

The old woman was standing in the middle of the room, hands and forearms covered in soil. She took in the bundle on his back, the dirt on his skin, the markings barely visible under…

“Servus,” she breathed.

Fenris opened his mouth to argue, not quite certain what he’d say, when voices outside attracted his attention. They were loud, happy. Accompanied by the familiar clanking of armour. And then there was a heavy knock on the door.

“Anyone in? We just want to talk.”

Fenris looked back from the door to the woman with wide eyes. He adjusted the bundle on his back, ready to fight if necessary.

But the woman didn’t answer to the Tevene guards. Instead, she waved her hand in the air, and whispered to Fenris: “Take what you need.”

Fenris didn’t know what to say. “I…”

She gestured at the curtained-covered window behind Fenris. “Take what you need and **run**.”

He swallowed and nodded once. “Gratiae.”

He grabbed the rag, sticking it hastily into his bundle. He looked behind him as he pushed the curtain aside. The woman was slipping through the doors, already chatting amicably with the soldiers.

Why would she risk her safety for a slave? No one, apart from the Fog Warriors, had done this for Fenris.

So maybe there was hope, after all. Maybe he could find people that weren’t his enemies once again.

He slipped through the small window, and ran away as fast as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch as I butcher Latin in an attempt to imitate the Tevene language!  
>   
> Libertas supera opulentus - Freedom over ease  
> Servus - Slave  
> Gratiae - Thank you


	6. I heard enough, this ends now.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is not a very big fan of Isabela and Varric's schemes......  
> (Rated M for Maker, Isabela, stop)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the worst thing I've ever written and I'm infinitely sorry. Warning for terrible Isabela friendfiction. If I ever get caught I will deny being the author of this piece. They'll never catch me alive.

It had been a boring day of getting involved into petty fights, and Hawke was more than relieved to finally be heading to the Hanged Man with his companions. Fenris had bailed, needing to tend to his recent wounds and stretch a few muscles that hadn’t enjoyed the fighting. Hawke had offered to join, but he’d amicably refused, and said goodnight with that softness in his eyes that he seemed to reserve for Hawke.

“Hey, Rivaini.” Varric nudged Isabela. “Show me what you got.”

She fished a few sheets of paper from inside of her shirt and cleared her throat. “ _The lithe elven man felt his pointed ears tremble and his blood race, as his authoritative lover trapped him_ –”

“Um?”

“Nothing, Hawke.” Isabela snickered quietly. “– _trapped him against the wall of his mansion_ … Oh, yes! This is my favourite part. _The human heard his servant call from downstairs, but nothing could keep his attention away from the marked elf in his arms. He grabbed his tunic with one hand, and ripped it clean off his body._ ”

“Nice,” said Varric appreciatingly.

“Right? I thought the ripped clothes were a good addition. Anyway, so… _The elf shivered, all too aware of the wind on his dark skin, and of his nudity only being hidden from the window by the body of his mighty lover._ "

Hawke stopped dead in his tracks, eyeing the papers in Isabela’s hands. “Is this… Is this what I think it is?”

“Stop worrying quite so much, Hawke!” She waved dismissively. “The people of Kirkwall wants to know these things! They want to know about how you…” she scanned the papers in her hands, looking for a specific line. “How your _powerful muscles bulged under your tight shirt as you pumped up and_ –”

“OKAY!” Hawke shouted. “I heard enough, this ends now!” He ripped the papers from Isabela’s hands before she could make a move and turned to Varric. “And you knew about this? _Betrayal_.”

“Me? Oh, no!” Varric put a hand over his heart, eyes wide. He shrugged. “No, being the one who _requested_ the friendfiction, _that_ would have been betrayal.”

“M-My relationship with Fenris is NONE of your business!” Hawke squealed, face bright red.

Isabela laughed. She disagreed.


	7. No worries, we still have time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the night before the Archdemon attacks Denerim. Warden Tabris and Alistair share a moment.  
> (cw grief, guilt, minor character death)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for grief, guilt, and minor character death..? 
> 
> I'm highkey excited about this one, because I now have a brand new plotpoint for Keerla!

There was a knock on Keerla’s door. It was quickly followed by “It’s Alistair!”

“Come in!” Keerla said from behind the room divider. She heard the door swing open, and close again.

“Oh, you’re… you’re not ready.”

“Almost,” Keerla said. “If you don’t mind waiting for me.”

“Oh, no worries, we still have time,” Alistair reassured. She heard him cross the room to sit on the edge of her bed. “They told me the food would be there for a while. It’s not like they would snatch the food away from…from the future…the future King.”

Keerla let out a shuddering breath. “Yeah,” she said in a small voice.

“But anyway, I hope they have these raisin pastries I like!” Alistair's cheerful tone sounded forced. “I know they’re hard to get by, but it seems to me that the Capital should–”

His voice died in his throat. He was onto his feet before he seemed to realise it. Keerla had stepped away from behind the room divider, in a brown tunic and grey trousers, a knife in her hand. For a second, he stood there with his mouth open and eyes wide.

Keerla had always had beautiful hair. Bright red, that she’d tie in a bun every morning, and wash thoroughly every opportunity she had. She didn’t let herself have many luxuries, but her hair was one of them. Whenever she let it down so it could dry, in the nights at camp, Alistair couldn’t tear his eyes away. She knew it caught the fire's light and reflected it like the fancy clothes human nobles wore. And when she grew closer to Alistair, he'd find every excuse to sit next to her at camp, brushing his hand through her washed hair, not-so-discretely breathing in its scent.

But right then, in the bedroom of the Denerim castle, there were no freshly washed curls around Keerla’s face.

Her hair was chopped short, messily, sticking up all around her skull like a halo. The knife in her hand still held a few strands of bright red hair, though they fell to the ground when she turned it in her palm to inspect it.

“There’s this girl, in the alienage,” she said, eyes fixed on the knife. “Her head barely reaches my hip. She slips out of Denerim and into the forest to collect wood, and then she swaps it for food. I don’t… I don’t know her name.”

“What happened?” Alistair breathed.

“Yesterday, when the Darkspawn flooded the alienage, she was there. I think… I think she was running towards someone, on the ground. I saw the Hurlock before she did, I shouted a warning, but it reached her before me and lifted her off the ground.” She shuddered. “I would have had time to save her, you know. I’d have slashed the Hurlock’s legs out from under him. My new daggers are sharp. But I…when I launched forward, an ogre grabbed me. By my hair.” She gestured vaguely at it. “It’s not the first time it’s happened. And by the time I could free myself, the girl was gone.” Keerla wrapped her arms around her tightly, head hung low.

Alistair raised a hand in front of him, as though he wanted to touch her, but it hung in the air. “You can’t blame yourself,” he said in a low voice.

“I know, I’m not, I…” She sighed and finally looked back up at Alistair. “I don’t blame myself. But I can’t let it happen again, not if I can prevent it. I should have done this a long time ago.”

Alistair took a tentative step forward, and, when Keerla didn’t move, he wrapped his arms around her.

Keerla let out a shuddering breath. She used to hate how humans towered over her, giving them this sense of superiority they hadn’t earned. But it was different for Alistair. She didn’t need protection, she never had, but she found infinite comfort in this. Face pressed into Alistair’s chest, breathing in the smell of soap and warmth, his arms surrounding her torso. She extricated her arms from the inside of the embrace to wrap them around Alistair’s waist. He let his cheek rest on top of her head, like he always did when he needed more comfort than usual.

Alistair never let go of a hug first. He settled around her, matching his breathing to hers, and for a split second it felt like nothing else in the world existed. No Blight, no Darkspawn, no little girl, just Alistair’s stubble against her head and his fingers pressing hard into her shoulders.

She let out a long breath. She detached her arms from Alistair’s sides, and he let her go.

“For what it’s worth, I think you look stunning,” he murmured, and brushed his hand through her hair. She scoffed and avoided his gaze. His hand cupped her chin, making her look up at him. “You do,” he repeated.

“Thank you, Alistair.” Keerla’s lips curled ever so slightly.

He grabbed her hand. “Now come on, we should go eat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (EDIT: I've been working on a proper timeline for Keerla and I realised that this doesn't work at all, since the alienage gets attacked on the day of her death, not the day before......... But we'll strategically ignore that fact for now hey?)
> 
> Find more about Keerla Tabris over [here](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/keerla-tabris)!


	8. You know I do.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone finds their own way to pass the time while walking through the Frostbacks...

The Frostback Mountains were ruthless. Cold, prone to storms, and the snow that fell without interruption forced them to pay close attention to every step, unless they wanted to get lost and freeze to death.

Keerla had wanted only a few people to accompany her to Orzammar. Zevran, Alistair and Wynne had agreed to join, while the others were staying in camp where it was warmer, and far less dangerous.

They were more than half of the way there, now. Only a couple more days of walking, according to the maps, maybe three, and they’d reach the underground city. In the meantime, they all found things to do to pass the time…

Zevran was leading the way with Alistair, walking slowly through the knee-high snow. “Are you okay, my dear Alistair?” he asked out of the blue, while brushing some fresh snowflakes off his eyebrow.

Alistair startled from his thoughts and turned a hooded face to him. “Umm? Me? Yes.”

 “Oh, good, good! You got me worried there, for a bit.”

Keerla smiled to herself, knowing that whatever direction this was going, it would no doubt be entertaining. She saw Alistair slow down and squint at Zevran. “Why…?”

Zevran held his hands up in dismissal. “Nothing, nothing! I was afraid you’d be tired, but at least I guess warmth must not be an issue at night.

Keerla’s smile widened a little, starting to guess what Zevran was hinting at.

“What are you talking about?” Alistair asked in the same suspicious tone as before.

Zevran cleared his throat. “Well, you know me, I did not mean to overhear, but I couldn’t help but notice how very–” he chuckled “–noisy your tent has recently become.” He leaned towards Alistair. “The tent you share with our fearless leader,” he added in a too-loud whisper, as though the meaning could have escaped him.

Behind Keerla, Wynne snorted, and quickly turned it into a cough, that transformed into a small laugh again. Alistair did not seem as amused. His ears turned redder than the cold had already made them, and he protested in a high-pitched voice: “Maker, please, no more of that.”

“Funny, is it not,” said Zevran with a smirk in his voice, “how differently one can speak from one evening to the next morning?”

Alistair hid his face with both gloved hands, clearly remembering in great detail the previous night. He whined low in his throat, and Keerla couldn’t hold back her laughter anymore. It bubbled out of her, loud, precious in its rarity.

Alistair turned to her, face red and apologetic. She extended a hand, and he slowed his pace to join her sides. She touched his shoulder, still smiling, and shook her head at Zevran. “You love torturing Alistair, don’t you?”

Zevran smiled widely, before bowing his head. “Ah, my dear Warden, you know I do!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find out more about Keerla Tabris over [here](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/keerla-tabris)!


	9. You shouldn't have come here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One should always find the time to see their favourite pirate, no matter how many Crows are hunting one down.

Isabela didn’t know if Zevran would take her up on her proposition. She'd seen a strain of exhaustion and unrest, behind his smile, after they’d disposed of the Crows. Isabela had offered him to stay with her in the Hanged Man, for a few nights at least, but she hadn’t heard from him since.

That evening she stood at her usual spot, close to the counter, but not too far from the action if anything interesting happened. She took a gulp of her ale. Maybe Zevran was already on his way out of the Free Marches. He was always on the move anyway, always running from someone or to someone else… She couldn’t expect him to stick arou–

“If I knew Kirkwall held such pleasant company, I would have dropped by much sooner,” said a cheerful Antivan voice behind her.

Isabela spun around with a wide smile and a delighted gasp. “Zevran! You’re here!” She stretched her arms and flung herself onto him. He stumbled backwards under her, before regaining his balance.

“Well of course,” his voice was muffled by her arms messily surrounding him. “I would not pass up the opportunity to spend some time with you, cariña!”

She stepped back but didn’t let go of his shoulders, taking him in. He looked a little less tired than he had earlier, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes more visible than the dark circles under them. His hair was tied back, and still wore his battered leather armour – Isabela doubted he owned any other clothing at the moment.

“It’s good to see you, Bella,” he said with a soft smile and softer eyes. “The road is exhausting on my own.”

She cocked a hip, eyebrow raised and cheeks hurting from her smile. “If you wanted to sleep tonight, Zevran, you shouldn’t have come here.”

He sighed wistfully, his gaze drifting not-so-discretely over her body. “No rest for the wicked, is there?”

Isabela grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards the counter. “Come on, let’s get you some terrible ale first!”


	10. You think this troubles me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian makes a new friend upon arriving at Haven.

The inn in Haven is small and decrepit, like most of the buildings there, but Dorian still finds himself heading there as soon as he’s left his belongings in the cabin that got offered to him. He sits at the counter and orders their best wine. The bartender chuckles and answers they only have a single kind, and Dorian huffs while forcing a polite smile on. A cup is deposited in front of him. Lost in the contemplation of the unappetising red liquid in it, he doesn’t notice someone hoisting themselves on the stool next to him.

“They stare at you,” says a rough voice to his side, making him jump. It’s that dwarf that was with the rest of the Inquisition earlier, still wearing his coat open in spite of the cold. He is perched on the edge of the stool and is studying Dorian.

“Who does?” Dorian senses his irritation seep into his voice.

The dwarf gestures vaguely in the air. “Everyone. The soldiers, the templars… Void, even the civilians do.”

As though that would escape Dorian’s notice. He raises an eyebrow. “You think this troubles me?”

“I have no idea, Sparkler. I don’t know you yet.” His simple honesty, paired with the unexpected nickname, disarms Dorian for a moment. He shakes his head.

“Well then you should know: I am used to the staring.” He takes a gulp of wine, winces at the taste, thinks. “It’s even become a little flattering, come to think of it.”

The dwarf laughs at that. Dorian smiles a bit, grateful for the easily amused audience.

“I’m Varric, by the way.” The dwarf extends a scarred, ink-stained hand. Dorian shakes it. Varric quickly glances towards the bartender, who’s busy talking with a customer, and then leans closer. “You shouldn’t drink here,” he says in a lower voice.

“If you’ve got anything better, I’m listening,” Dorian assures with a look of undisguised disgust at his wine.

Varric smiles, a spark of conspiracy in his eyes. “There’s always a better way, when you know who to speak to!”

Dorian studies him for a moment. “I like the way you think,” he decides. He hasn’t made a friend that quickly in a long time.

He will learn later that this is just how Varric is: friendly, keeping an eye on everyone, and full of connections.

Like the ones one would require to get Tevinter wine delivered to Haven.

“It’s part of my usual deliveries,” Varric will say with a shrug. Dorian will know it isn’t. He won’t comment.


	11. I will never forget.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Taliesen catches up with him in Denerim, Zevran has to make a choice. He decides to move forward, no matter the price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for character death, and some blood and gore

Taliesen was fast and had the advantage of number, but Zevran and his allies were stronger. When Zevran pushed his final opponent off his daggers and into the dirt, he turned to find the Warden standing over the last breathing enemy, holding a sword right under his chin. Both panting, but otherwise still.

“Zevran, do you want to take care of this one yourself?”

He walked up to them, slashing his daggers through the air to rid them of some of the blood.

The Crow on the ground was in bad shape. One of his arms was soaked through in blood, laying at an unnatural angle over his chest. The other one was trembling slightly, barely supporting the weight of his torso.

“Taliesen.”

The Warden removed his sword and stepped back, leaving Zevran’s vision when he crouched. All his attention was for the wounded human on the ground. He was looking up at him with defiance and bloody lips.

“Taliesen, I…” he repeated, not sure where to start.

The man coughed and winced, before shaking his head. “You’ve lost your mind, Zevran.” His voice was hoarse and low, but he spoke clearly. “You owe _everything_ to the Crows. They’re the reason neither of us became whores like your mother.” He hit the dirt with his good fist and leaned closer to Zevran. “We were so close to climbing up ranks, we’ve sacrificed so much.”

Zevran shook his head, teeth gritted. “ _We_ didn’t. _You_ did.”

Taliesen’s lips curled into a mad smile. He grasped Zevran’s forearm with his wounded hand, bloody fingers leaving wet smears on his skin. “And you let me.” He said with a vicious kind of pleasure. “You _cheered_ for me, Zevran. Remember? You holding her arms, laughing, while I sank my blade in Rinna’s hea–”

“Keep her name out of your mouth, Taliesen.” Zevran warned in a growl. “It does not belong there any longer.”

“She doesn’t matter. Forget about her.”

Zevran couldn’t bear it any longer. He flipped his dagger in his hand and set its point against that weakness Taliesen’s armour had, right over his fourth rib. He had a scar there, from the attack that had made the tear years ago. Taliesen kept saying he’d get it repaired later, and adding, ‘besides, you love that scar.’ It was true. Zevran knew how that scar felt under his tongue. He had loved it once, loved every inch of Taliesen’s skin, scarred or not.

Not anymore.

The blade sank without resistance through the damaged leather and into Taliesen’s lung.

Taliesen retched under him, gurgling and struggling to breathe. His fingernails dug hard into Zevran’s forearm.

“Listen to me,” Zevran said in a murmur. “I have mourned Rinnala. I have learnt from her death that I should trust my gut over my orders. But I…” he twisted the blade, making Taliesen cough up blood. “will _never_ forget.”

Taliesen stared at him with wide eyes, his eyelashes wet and sticking in clumps. Zevran suddenly vividly remembered kissing those eyelids with reverence, once. He swallowed bile.

Pierced lung was an ugly death. So Zevran pulled the dagger out of his ribs, and stuck it in one swift motion into his heart.

Taliesen’s features changed from pain to surprise, and then to nothing at all. His hand let go of Zevran, dropping heavily into the dust, and his eyes lost focus.

Zevran stood up.

“Let’s go.”


	12. Who could do this?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor Lavellan awakes next to his boyfriend Dorian with interesting marks on his body...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Listen_ this was either gonna be about a corpse being found, or about lovebites. I wasn't in the mood for corpses.  
>  cw for referenced rough intercourse...?

Iyandrar awoke facing a sleeping Dorian with a slightly askew moustache. The night had fallen while he was resting, and cold air was filtering through the half-open window, making Iyandrar shiver. Skyhold was far too cold a place to be spending any time naked like that, much less with an open window. He sat up to retrieve the blanket laying at his feet.

And that’s when he noticed the messy patches of blue and purple, scattered along his hip bones and thighs. Some in the shape of fingers, others betraying the faint shape of a hungry mouth. He huffed in amusement and smiled.

“My my, who could do this?” Dorian’s voice was but a sleepy murmur, his fingers reaching to brush over the bruised skin.

Iyandrar covered his boyfriend’s hand with his and interlaced their fingers. The palm of Dorian’s hand was calloused from the handling of his staff, but the inside of his wrist wasn’t. So Iyandrar brought it to his mouth and kissed it. “Honestly, I didn’t think you were a biter,” he said.

Dorian pushed himself up on one elbow. His eyebrows were knit with concern. “It wasn’t… Too rough, was it?”

Iyandrar chuckled and shook his head. “No, no. It was good.” He returned to the contemplation of the marked skin of his hips, smoothing it with the tip of his fingers. “I…I even kind of like the look of these,” he confessed. He heard Dorian’s breath hitch quietly.

“I might have left some up here, as well…” Dorian’s fingers ghosted over the thin skin of his throat, made their way to his collarbone. Iyandrar let out a happy sigh and closed his eyes.

“Josephine is going to kill me if those are not gone by the time the Free Marches Ambassadors are here,” he realised, opening his eyes in mild panic.

Dorian laughed loudly, like he rarely did in public, and shifted to kiss Iyandrar. “I’ll lend you a scarf,” he promised.


	13. Try harder next time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran is a massive thorn in Grandmaster Arainai's foot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for graphic threat and mention of blood

Eoman Arainai had had enough of that slippery, impertinent pain in his ass. More than enough. Two dozen men had already been sent after that good-for-nothing, insolent bad seed. None had returned. _None_.

Intel kept trickling back to Antiva, sightings of dead Crows in the streets, on the roads, in inn rooms and public baths…

Not only was this son-of-a-whore a deserter, but he was also terrible for business. The Crows of House Arainai were getting fewer by the day. By the Maker’s balls, Eoman had even had to hold back on the torture to make sure he didn’t end up with too many dead recruits! Holding back on torture! Every House knew that you couldn’t make good assassins without testing their limits first!

Eoman huffed loudly, fist hitting his desk in a heavy thud. “What else?” he barked at the poor messenger standing in the doorway. His face had been pale even before he’d listed the new casualties. He twisted his hands together, fingers white against a piece of parchment.

“There was a note, with to the bodies, Grandmaster Arainai. It was… It was pinned to the eldest’s chest with her own dagger.”

Eoman groaned and held out his hand. “Show me,” he ordered.

The messenger gave it to him and stepped back quickly, like standing within arm’s reach would burn him.

The piece of paper cracked under Eoman’s fingers as he unfolded it. The top part was torn, presumably from the dagger, and it was stained a red-black colour. It included a single line, the letters black and sharp.

 

_“Try harder next time. –Z.”_

 

He crumpled the letter in his fist, with so much strength that his arm started trembling. His jaw ached from squeezing it tight.

“Grandmaster Arainai?”

His fist hit the table a second time. He couldn’t have let go of the parchment if he’d wanted to. He spoke with his eyes closed, slowly, between gritted teeth. “I am going to pluck his nails and make him eat them, and then I’ll chop his head off and hang it right.over.my.door.” He didn’t bother to look up. “Get out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then he didn't


	14. Some people call this wisdom.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran doesn't handle the cold very well.

It’s Alistair who saw him first. “Hmm… Are you sure this is enough?” he asked in a voice tight with held-back laughter.

Keerla turned to follow his gaze. Zevran had just left his tent, the fabric of it still rustling close behind him. And he was…well.

He was wrapped up from head to toes in a mismatching assortment of scarves and pieces of fabric, and there were at least two coats on top of all of that. Keerla wasn’t sure when he even managed to pick up an extra coat.

She inclined her head, as silence fell over the camp. Leliana and Morrigan’s voice died down, and even the dog’s loud breathing seemed to dim.

“Did you…” Leliana begun. “Did you put gloves over your gloves?”

Zevran’s voice came, muffled under a thick wool scarf. “Some people call this wisdom. Leather isn’t warm enough, you see.”

“You’re not used to Fereldan climate, are you?” Alistair asked with a smile in his voice. He himself only wore a thin jacket over his shirt, and he looked far too pleased with the situation.

“I am certainly more used to the charms of the Antivan weather,” Zevran admitted with a gesture that might have been a bow, if it weren’t for all the layers in his way.

“But…” Alistair stammered. “We’re in the middle of Justinian! It’s one of the warmest times of year!”

“Now, Alistair, don’t tease,” Wynne said in a soothing voice.

“I’m not.” He started whispering in her direction, “How can he think _this_ is cold?”

“You should try and get accustomed to the cold,” Leliana advised. “You cannot fight with so many scarves around your neck.”

Morrigan simply made a tsk sound. Zevran turned to her stiffly and winked. “Ah, but I am not complaining about you being accustomed. I must say you wear it rather strikingly, in fact.”

Morrigan crossed her arms over her almost-bare chest like a challenge, and huffed.

Zevran turned back to the rest of them. “On the other hand, I would be ready to bet two sovereigns that none of you could handle the summer in Antiva!” he declared. And, without waiting for an answer, he slowly wobbled his way to the fire with his chin held high.

Or so Keerla guessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find more about Keerla Tabris over [here](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/keerla-tabris)!


	15. I thought you had forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair has to mourn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter is just.sad.  
> cw grief

The road from Ostagar was muddy, their boots gathering wet, dark soil as they walked. Only Keerla’s newly acquired dog seemed to be perfectly fine with the condition of the ground. He was running back and forth in front of them, guiding their path and covering his fur with a generous amount of dirt.

“Did Duncan give you any information we could use?” Keerla enquired, voice hoarse from lack of use.

Alistair seemed to emerge from a dream. “Duncan?” he repeated in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.

“Yes. You were close, weren’t you?” She turned to him. His arms were dangling at his sides, and his eyes unfocused. Not the posture of the trained warrior she’d seen before.

He breathed out, face tight with concentration. “I… I thought you had forgotten.”

Keerla frowned. “It’s been two days,” she grumbled. “Elven memory isn’t any worse than human one.”

That seemed to wake him up. “Maker, no!” he protested, finally looking up at her. She held his gaze. “No, sorry, it’s just… I’m not used to people, uh, remembering, me. Or anything about me. I’m more of a…out of sight out of mind person, you know?”

Keerla nodded, surprised he would care about offending her. She looked back at the road, and at her dog happily bouncing around. She heard Alistair sigh.

“And to answer your question, he didn’t. He didn’t…tell me anything.” His voice died in a choked sound.

Keerla didn’t add anything. The dog barked in the distance, racing back towards them in a trail of mud.

“I believe we are nearing Lothering,” Morrigan pointed out from behind them.

Keerla glanced at Alistair. She’d seen grief before, though city elves had a habit of getting over deaths quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. It was probably for the best that Alistair mourned on his own time, if only for his skills as a warrior not to be lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find more about Keerla Tabris over [here](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/keerla-tabris)!


	16. This is going to be so much fun!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela swings by to pick Merrill up on their way to a party.

Hawke had almost refused the invitation, but Aveline had stepped in. It’s Isabela who’d come up with a proper plan. “Let's go to the party,” she had said. “Dress well, play our part as their nice Hightown allies. They’re bound to let something slip.”

Isabela had learnt that trick a long time ago, from her friend Zevran. Play nice, look as non-threatening as you possibly can, gather all the information you can get. Sometimes, the results simply matter more than the method.

Hawke had agreed, on the condition that they all play their parts to the best of their ability, which included dressing to somewhat blend in. Varric had spent the day polishing his boots, Fenris had bought a coat to replace his spiky armour, and even Isabela had agreed to put on some trousers. She’d have been lying if she’d said she wasn’t enjoying dressing up.

The party would start soon, Hightown nobles probably already gathering and sharing some unsavoury arrangements that Aveline would love to learn about. Isabela, however, wasn’t in Hightown. She had swung by the alienage, as promised, to pick up Merrill. She was seating on her single creaky chair, waiting for her friend to finish getting ready.

“I think this is going to be so much fun! Don’t you think so?” Merrill babbled from inside her bedroom. There was a rustling of fabric.

“Oh, I’d never pass up the chance to eavesdrop on some nobles’ dirty secrets.”

“No, that wouldn’t be like you, you’re right!” Merrill agreed, before muttering a few Dalish words. “What do you think, Isabela?”

Merrill emerged from her bedroom, wearing a green dress that reached her thin ankles. It had clearly been made at home, the stitches twisting in places, but it had been made with love. The fabric caught the dim light of the candles and reflected it, muted and strangely golden. Isabela didn’t know much about fabric, but this looked expensive, and she was willing to bet Merrill had spent most of her share of their latest excursion on it. She stood up without even realising she was doing it and stepped closer to Merrill.

“Oh Kitten, this is _lovely_!” she breathed.

Merrill gave a twist. “It’s not too much, is it?”

“You look marvellous, Merrill,” Isabela purred, still entranced by the reflections barely brushing the shape of her hips, her shoulders, her chest. When she looked up, the tips of Merrill’s ears were red in the dim candlelight. There was a pleased smile on her lips.

Isabela grabbed one of her own bracelet, a thin circlet made of silver with a single orange jewel embedded at the top. “Here,” she said, twisting her wrist to remove it. She slipped it around Merrill’s hand, which was so thin it barely held the piece of jewellery in place.

“Oh,” she breathed, holding up her wrist in front of her, admiring the shine of the stone. “It’s beautiful, Isabela, I would be too scared to lose it!”

“You can keep it, Kitten.”

Merrill gasped. Her hand was already on the bracelet, ready to remove it. “No, it’s yours, I can’t–”

Isabela clasped her hand around Merrill’s. “Keep it,” she repeated. “I look better in gold anyway.”

“You do look good in gold,” Merrill agreed, as though it was a very persuasive argument. She held the bracelet up once again, Isabela’s hand still wrapped against hers. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I’ve never owned anything so shiny.”

Isabela couldn’t help it. She squeezed her hand to get her attention, and kissed her forehead. Merrill smiled up at her, one of those bright, unguarded smiles that Isabela had almost only ever seen on her. She pushed a strand of Merrill’s hair behind her ear. “Let’s go, Kitten. They’ll be waiting.”


	17. I'll tell you, but you're not going to like it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany does something Malcom really hoped none of his children would do.

At first, it looks like a squabble of the twins like any other. Carver rushing to his father, teary-eyed, screaming about his sister doing _something_. He’s quickly followed by his two siblings, walking slowly behind him across the garden. Bethany’s head hangs low, one fist closed in front of her, her other hand holding her wrist so tightly that the skin is white where they meet. Garrett has his hands firmly planted on each of her shoulders, which is what tells Malcom that something is very wrong. Garrett never takes sides in his siblings’ fights.

“What happened?” Malcom asks, removing his hat to wipe the sweat on his brow.

“I’ll tell you, but you’re not going to like it,” Bethany murmurs. She doesn’t raise her voice, doesn’t look up. “Carve was annoying me, and I… I…”

When she doesn’t continue, Malcom looks at Garrett, eyebrows raised in a silent question. Instead of answering, he squeezes his sister’s shoulders and kneels by her. “Show him,” he asks softly.

Bethany uncurls her fist. In it sits Carver’s favourite toy, a small horse than Malcom had carved from light wood, many years ago.

Except it’s not light anymore. It’s charred, with the tips of its legs still red. The embers are resting against the pale skin of Bethany’s palms, sizzling and bright. She doesn’t flinch.

Leandra shouts something, but her voice seems muffled to Malcom. He feels dizzy. Nauseous. When he looks at his wife, she’s got both hands clasped over her mouth, wide eyes fixed on their daughter.

“What’s going to happen to me?” Bethany asks softly. Her face is as pale as Malcom has ever seen it. Small flames flare up from the toy and die down again.

Malcom can't move. It's Garrett who wraps his arms around her body as tightly as he can, his eyes closed. “You’ll be alright, Beth, I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”


	18. You should have seen it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke arrives at the Hanged Man with a mysterious bruise on his cheek...

Hawke was late at the Hanged Man. Not fashionably late, as he usually was, but seriously late. Varric briefly wondered if it had anything to do with Fenris, for whom Hawke held the door on their way in, but then he noticed something else. There was a bruise on Hawke’s cheekbone, purple and yellow. It looked painful. “That’s new,” Varric pointed out, still shuffling his cards without looking.

Hawke touched the bruised skin with the tip of his fingers as he sat down next to Merrill, quickly followed by Fenris. “The mansion was, uh, broken into earlier,” he said. “They attacked me. A whole group of them."

Merrill gasped. “How many?”

“At least…” Hawke frowned, “…seven. Or eight. But I won. You should have seen it!” He moved back briefly as Isabela slid two cups of ale to the newly arrived.

Varric gave him an raised-eyebrow look which he hoped accurately conveyed the sentiment of “nugshite”. Hawke cleared his throat and took a gulp of his drink, holding his gaze with unnatural steadiness.

“That’s awful, Hawke!” Merrill sounded horrified. “How did they come in?”

“They came through the…window,” he said, waving his cup around.

“Didn’t Fenris hear? He was with you, wasn’t he?” Merrill turned to him, as though she was suddenly worried he too might be injured. Fenris coughed. He looked up at Hawke, and Varric could guess the twitch of a smile at the corners of his lips.

“He tripped on the rug and fell against his desk,” he said, quickly.

Garrett spun towards him, free hand over his heart. “ _Betrayal!_ ”

“Hawke!” Merrill threw an unconvincing punch against his arm and he jumped back with a smile. “Why didn’t you apply elfroot on it!” she accused.

Isabela stood between the two of them, looking with amusement at Hawke’s nasty bruise. “Oh Kitten, I doubt he is organised enough to keep a stock of elfroot at home,” she said with a brush of her fingers on Merrill’s cheek. She turned her attention back to Hawke. “Isn’t that right?”

“Maybe,” Hawke grumbled into his ale.


	19. Oh please, like this is the worst I've done!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor Lavellan has a bad habit of going missing during important banquets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's more info about Iyandrar, if you're curious!](http://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/iyandrar-lavellan)

Leliana’s people are discreet, Dorian would have to give them that. If he didn’t know who to look for, he wouldn’t have noticed any of the whispered words, the pieces of paper scribbled and passed from person to person across the busy throne room. There was a muted sort of agitation, hiding in plain sight.

Dorian crossed Josephine’s gaze. Now _she_ wasn’t as discrete as Leliana's people. She widened her eyes at him without pausing her passionate chat with some Antivan Ambassador, and he shrugged back. Why the void would he know anything about the Inquisitor’s whereabouts? Iyandrar was a grown man. It was his own problem, if he decided to sneak off as soon as diplomatic banquets were held in Skyhold.

He swirled his wine around, more out of habit than anything else. He was standing in a threshold, enjoying the slight cover it provided.

He hadn’t been invited to that event. He hadn’t been asked to stay away, either, and some social drinking and gossiping was always fun. He’d heard Antivan politics were rather _interesting_ , and he wouldn’t miss this sort of opportunity.

He was about to take another sip of wine, when he felt the hair at the back of his head…move. Rise away from his scalp and vibrate with a familiar kind of feeling. He shook his head with a smile. _Someone_ was fond of his electricity tricks.

He glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention, before turning on his heels and heading into the dark hallway.

“You’re making a terrible impression on our guests,” he declared to the darkness, getting a grumbling sound as an answer. “Well? What are we doing?” He raised his cup to his mouth and tipped it slowly, incapable of seeing when the wine would hit his lips.

There was the sound of clicking fingers, and a small green flame lit in a palm, floating not far. A pair of brown eyes entered the light, followed by the rest of Iyandrar’s face. “Come with me!”

Dorian chuckled. He put his now-empty cup on the ground and followed the sound of footsteps and the faint light of veilfire down the hallway. It led to narrow stairs, then a heavy wooden door which opened on a balcony. The cold air hit Dorian like a punch in the chest.

“What do you think?” Iyandrar hopped up on a stone wall, smile bright and excited. He threw his hood off. He was wearing that thick green cape he put on when he was sneaking around Skyhold. Dorian wasn’t certain it still fooled anyone who paid attention.

He wrapped his arms around himself. “I think that Josephine would sell her youngest sister to know where you’re hiding.”

Iyandrar laughed. “Oh please, like this is the worst I’ve done! She’ll forgive me.”

“I also think that Leliana knows where you are by now.”

Iyandrar waved a hand dismissively. “Good. As long as she doesn’t send someone to fetch me, it means they don’t require my presence that badly.”

“I supposed that’s true,” Dorian agreed.

He looked around. The Courtyard was barely visible from up here, the people in it looking hardly bigger than bugs. It was a sheltered place. No wind, just the sun reflecting on the surrounding snow, so bright Dorian had to squint. “It’s beautiful.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Iyandrar jump down from the wall, cape floating behind him. He walked to Dorian, lifted the corner of it, and wrapped them both in it.

It smelled like candle wax and elfroot, and the warmth of it sank right into Dorian’s bones. He huddled closer, and they both stood there, watching the clouds move in the distance.

“How did you find this place?” Dorian asked.

“I run away from nobles a lot. My quarters are too predictable.”

Dorian hummed. “Quite wise.”

“How’s your research going?”

“The books you brought back from the Western approach are rather fascinating. I doubt even Minrathous is in possession of such–”

There was a firm knock on the door. From the inside.

“Lord Inquisitor, Ser, your presence is required in the throne room,” said a voice behind it.

Iyandrar sighed. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he said in his Inquisitor voice, louder and unequivocal, as his shoulder slumped ever so slightly against Dorian’s. He shivered.

Dorian pretended he hadn’t noticed. “See? I told you Leliana knew,” he joked instead.

Iyandrar exhaled slowly, eyes closed and eyebrows knit. “Can I see you this evening?” It sounded more desperate than he’d probably intended it to be.

Dorian grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “Of course, Amatus.”


	20. I hope you have a speech prepared.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iyandrar Lavellan would rather AVOID the spotlights.

The fight was efficient. Iyandrar was starting to find his footing, to know how the others fought. Varric always kept an eye on his back, and Cassandra was best in the thick of it. Strong, loud and bloody. Solas was skilled too, though Iyandrar couldn’t quite tell where his technique came from.

Once the rift was closed, they headed back down the hill towards the small, deserted village they’d passed on the way in.

Except it wasn’t deserted now. All the previously locked doors were thrown open, people pouring out of the houses, parents clutching their children tightly. The bolder youths were scattered around, armed with rudimentary weapons that they stopped brandishing upon seeing them return. They were waiting for them, Iyandrar realised. Hoping for their return, fearing it wouldn’t happen. And all of their attention was on him. On his hand, glowing bright in the falling light of dusk.

“I hope you have a speech prepared,” Varric said in a low voice.

Iyandrar whined. “I hate this.”

Varric sympathetically bumped his shoulder against him. “I know, Lavellan, I know.”

In the village, a chorus of thanks and payers rose. Iyandrar winced. “Do you think they’ll ever let it down? The Herald thing.”

“Ah, ‘course they will!” Varric shrugged. “They always find something newer and shinier to rely on. But right now, you’re the newest and shiniest thing around.”

Iyandrar searched his memory. He vaguely remembered Cassandra mentioning a friend of his... The Champion, or something? A commoner becoming a symbol for the people over a few fights. “Like your friend," he noted.

“Hawke?” Varric asked.

“Yes. I’ve heard they became quite the phenomenon.”

Varric laughed. “Got a statue and all.”

“How did they escape the attention?”

“Err...” Varric shook his head. “Got tangled up in a war and disappeared into thin air?”

Iyandrar nodded to himself. “Uh. You know what, it might get tempting.”

Behind them, Cassandra made a disapproving noise.

“Lavellan’s only joking, Seeker!” Varric assured. “He would  _never_  pull a Hawke.”

Iyandrar turned to her and put on his most innocent smile. “Never.”

Cassandra looked unconvinced. She squinted at them, which was far funnier than it was threatening.

The voices from the village were getting sharper. “Praise Andraste!” one of them shouted. Iyandrar turned back. Children were now running free, some towards them, some still cowering behind their mothers. Quite a few villagers were hugging, holding onto each other in relief.

“Herald!” another voice followed, coming from an old man.

“It’s the Maker who sent you!”

Iyandrar turned to Varric, raising his hand to hide his face in a mock adjustment of his hair. He grimaced at Varric, who laughed sympathetically. “Come on now, you’ll be fine. Go talk to them.”


	21. Impressive, truly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone intrudes on Keerla Tabris's training.

Spin around, dodge the sword, kick to the knee, grab the throat, pierce through the eye. Again. Spin, dodge, kick, grab, pierce. Spin, dodge, kick, gr–

Keerla lost her footing and hit the muddy ground in a thud. “Shit.”

Her left shoulder had hit a rock. It would probably be a nasty bruise, but for now it was just sore; sore enough that she decided to drop this kind of training for today. She sheathed her two daggers and took one of the throwing knives from her belt.

Keerla didn’t use to train, per se. Her skill with her daggers simply got sharper with use, with every purse cut and every blade thrown to amuse the children in the alienage. She did now, though. Darkspawn wouldn’t just get her into trouble if she missed, they’d kill her with a single well-placed sword swing.

There was a tree, far enough that hitting it in the hazy light of dawn would be a challenge. She positioned herself, taking a deep breath out, and breathing in again.

Throw.

The blade sunk deep into the trunk, where it made a low vibrating sound.

Another knife.

 _Thump_.

Keerla threw all ten of her knives, one by one, all of which hit the trunk in a neat vertical line. She gazed at them, satisfied, hands planted on her hips.

“You’re good,” said a voice on her right.

She turned around. Zevran was sitting cross-legged on a rock, looking like he’d been there for a while. He hadn’t put on the bigger pieces of his armour, instead only wearing the lighter parts. His back was very straight, each of his wrists propped on a knee and hands hanging low and unthreatening. A practiced pose, no doubt.

Keerla shrugged. “Don’t act surprised. These blades were pointing at your heart not a week ago.”

He chuckled. “Very true. Who trained you?”

She let the silence hang for a few seconds. _Never reveal anything they can use against you_. “My mother,” she finally said, judging the information inconsequential.

He made a pensive sound, looking her over carefully, wearing his ever-present smirk. “Impressive, truly.”

Keerla nodded slowly. “She was a good woman and a good fighter.” She walked to the tree and began retrieving her blades. They were firmly stuck, but she’d been fighting long enough that removing them wasn’t too much of a challenge. She put them back on her belt, their weight reassuring on her hips.

When she turned around, Zevran had gotten up. He was standing where she was just a minute ago, stretching his neck, then shoulders. “Tell me, my dear Warden,” he said, looking up at her, “would you like to train together?”

Keerla scoffed. “And let you put your dagger under my throat? Unlikely.”

Zevran bent forward until his fingertips touched the ground and stood up again, rolling his shoulders. He threw an ostensibly charming smile at her. “Someday, perhaps, then.”

“Perhaps.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How obvious is it that I have no idea how combat training works?
> 
> Find out more about Keerla Tabris over [here](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/keerla-tabris)!


	22. I know how you love to play games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan makes an offer to Keerla Tabris (spoilers for the end of DAO)

Keerla felt her ears ringing, the same ugly sound that she’d heard when she’d learnt her mother had been murdered.

“Well?” Morrigan sounded impatient. Always impatient.

“I...” Keerla’s throat was dry. She cleared it. Her vision was black at the edges, as though she’d taken a blow from a sword hilt.

A ritual, Morrigan has said. An offspring that would bear Alistair’s blood. A tainted child he would never see. Keerla shook her head in an attempt to clear it.

“How... How can you do this to me, Morrigan?” she murmured. “I know how you love to play games, but even for you that’s _cold_.”

She looked up at her. Morrigan uncrossed her arms to wave a hand dismissively, ignoring the accusation. “Tis a good proposition. You all walk out alive, and never have to think about the Blight again.”

Keerla couldn’t hold back a laughter, short and bitter. It didn’t sound like her. Her throat choked around it. “You know it’s not that easy. You know I– I. You know I love him.” She swallowed hard. “I can’t– I won’t do that to him.”

Morrigan made a sound of disgust. “Only a fool would refuse such an offer!“

Keerla raised her hands, palms up, and let them fall in defeat. “I don’t care. I won’t do it.” She looked up at Morrigan, making sure her words were heard: “And Alistair will _never_ learn of this.”

Morrigan shook her head in disbelief, lips sealed tight. “Very well. I have no interest in telling him. If you wish to make ill-advised decisions, then so be it.”

Keerla’s eyes stung. “You had no right to bring this up now, Morrigan.” She felt her anger slip into grief. She wasn’t quite sure who her sorrow was for. Morrigan? Alistair? Herself?

Morrigan grabbed her staff. “I shall go, then. I will not stand by knowing you have chosen such lunacy.”

Keerla sat heavily on the chair facing the fireplace, too tired to spare a glance for Morrigan. “Leave, then,” she ordered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find more about Keerla Tabris over [here](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/keerla-tabris)!


	23. This is not new, it only feels like it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull took a decision that changed his life.

The blade needs to be sharper, sharper, sharper. Maybe if he never stops sharpening his axe, he’ll never have to think about it.

_Tal-Vashoth._

The blade needs to be sharper. The sound of the stone on metal is like an anchor. Rhythmic and slow, like his Tama’s songs.

No. He shouldn’t rely on the memory of his Tama anymore.

Rhythmic and slow, like the waves on the shores of Seheron.

No, no, no. It’s all wrong.

Bull is so focused on the sound of his work that he doesn’t notice Cole sitting down on the grass, not far from him. It’s his voice that ends up cutting through the haze of his thoughts.

“The sound of retreat is sweet to their ears,” he murmurs, “loyalty to them before loyalty to _them_ , we’re alive, we’re alive, horns pointing up.”

Bull stops his work to look up at him. His jaw clenches and he says nothing.

Cole stares back. “You made the right choice, the Iron Bull.”

Bull looks back at the axe laying across his knees. The edge of it catches the dull morning light and reflects it, blindingly bright, for just a moment. “A lot of people would disagree with that,” he grumbles.

Cole inclines his head, hat slumping to the side. “Not the ones that matter. This is not new, it only feels like it.”

“I…” Bull sighs. “Thank you, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We don't talk about the Chargers dying in this area of the internet xx


	24. You know this, you know this to be true.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keerla Tabris needs a little push to chase what she's interested in (Alistair. She's interested in Alistair.)

Alistair looked so much less intimidating in the evenings, when he’d discarded his armour, and was going through his chores by the fire. The scars on his hands glinted in the flickering light, even at this distance. He threw a log into the fire, shoulders held tighter than usual. Keerla sighed.

“What’s troubling you?” Wynne asked next to her, and Keerla jumped.

“Nothing,” she answered in a breath, tearing her eyes away from Alistair to focus on the rabbit she was skinning.

It’s Alistair who’d taught her. He’d sat beside her, thigh hot against hers, hands wrapped around her own, and shown her in patient movements how to do it. He’d been focused the whole way through, and it was only when she’d turned to him to say something and their breaths had crashed against each other, that he’d seemed to realise how close he was sitting. He’d jumped back, face red and voice stuttering, and Keerla hadn’t found anything to say.

She’d never been good at improvising.

“We’ve been here before, Keerla,” Wynne said patiently. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“I…” Keerla risked a glance at Alistair. He was now sitting on the ground where he was standing a second ago, the end of a bandage stuck in his teeth, the other one wrapped tightly around his wrist. He was arranging it with his other hand, eyebrows knit together in concentration.

Alistair had been the first person to help Keerla with her own wounds since her mum had died. She’d gotten scratched pretty badly while exploring the Korcari Wilds, before she was even a Warden, and she was intending on tending to it herself, like she’d been doing for years. But Alistair had shown up, an elfroot salve in one hand and a somewhat clean piece of fabric in the other. He’d sat beside her in the dirt. When he first tried to grab her arm she’d jerked back, so he’d just handed his findings and watched her tug her sleeve back. She’d applied the salve with trembling fingers, which turned into her arm shaking so badly that she couldn’t hold the makeshift bandage still. He’d offered his help again, without a word, and had wrapped the wound tightly, with quick, careful fingers.

Wynne made an encouraging sound. Keerla looked up at her. She was smiling kindly, like she always was. Like her mum used to. As though she’d never get angry, never disappointed. She breathed out.

“It’s Alistair.”

“I thought as much,” Wynne said, going back to the tunic she was repairing. “What happened?”

Keerla frowned at herself. By the fire, Alistair finished bandaging his wrist and headed towards his tent, back carefully turned to them. “I think he’s angry at me,” Keerla confessed.

“Hm. And why would it be so?”

“He… He told me... He told me he liked me.” Keerla shook her head, overwhelmed by how childish this all felt. She’d never chased this kind of things. Flings, romance, the kissing and everything else… It was a luxury for other people.

“And what did you say?” There was a twinkle of amusement in Wynne’s voice, though carefully covered by genuine care.

Keerla grimaced at her half-skinned rabbit. “I said I didn’t know, and then I left.”

“I see.” Wynne sighed, letting go of her needle to stretch her hands. “If he told you the same thing right now, what would you say?”

Keerla felt her skin crawling with the need to hide. Hiding was so easy. Running away into the shadows. Most problems disappeared if you hid for long enough. “I’d say that I do too,” she murmured.

For a moment, she feared Wynne would ask her to repeat, but she instead made an approving sound. “Here you go. He’s not angry, he’s scared. You know this, you know this to be true.”

“Maybe,” she mumbled.

“You’re a brave girl, Keerla.”

Her head snapped up towards Wynne. Her heart felt heavy. Few people apart from her mum had ever called her brave. Hot-blooded, foolish, angry, yes, but never brave.

“You need to talk to him,” Wynne continued. “And I know you can, because you’re such a brave girl.”

Keerla looked back up towards the fire. Alistair was sitting by it again, scraping blood off the chestplate laying across his knees. The scars on his hands were glinting more brightly than ever, like cobwebs spreading over his knuckles.

“Thank you, Wynne.” _You’re like a mother to me_ , she thought, but she didn’t say it. She hoped Wynne understood anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find more about Keerla Tabris over [here](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/keerla-tabris)!


	25. Go forward, do not stray.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iyandrar Lavellan is an ADHD icon and Dorian is Outraged.

“Must you do this?”

“Do what?” Iyandrar asked, looking up from the traces in the mud he was examining. Dorian was standing on the trail, arms crossed.

“Run away from the path that all other civilised beings have been using for decades? Go for a wander in the bushes, when our goal is right there?” He pointed at a column of smoke poking from the hill in front of him.

“But…” Iyandrar protested with a small voice, “There might be something interesting in those shrubs!”

Dorian scoffed. “You don’t know that.” He carefully adjusted his posture so he looked even more offended than before. It was always a very amusing display for Iyandrar, though he’d never tell him. He did like not getting his eyebrows burnt off.

“No, and I’ll never know if I don’t take a look.” Iyandrar responded to Dorian’s glare with an amused smile. “Hey, I _was_ raised in a forest.”

Dorian sighed. “Alright, I’ll accept it.”

Satisfied with his observations, Iyandrar made his way through the vegetation and back towards the path. Dorian looked him up and down with a critical eye, no doubt holding back more than one comment about the leaves that were now stuck on his clothes.

Iyandrar followed his gaze. He plucked one of them from his arm without too much conviction, and let it fall on the ground. He looked back up at Dorian with a barely held-back grin.

Dorian shook his head. “I can scarcely imagine that no one before me has been aggravated by your lack of focus.”

“Oh, my mamae did try to teach me not to wander.” Iyandrar shrugged. “She’d tell me, _go forward, do not stray_!” He smiled at the memory of his mother putting one knee to the ground to run her fingers through his hair.

“Did you listen to her?” Dorian asked in a tone that suggested he’d guessed the answer.

Iyandrar laughed. “Never!”


	26. But if I cannot see it, is it really there?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keerla Tabris and Zevran both have a habit of keeping mementos.

Zevran hovered for a second above Keerla, before finally sitting in the grass in front of her. “I have a question, my dear Warden.”

Keerla looked up at his silhouette, dark against the light of the fire. She raised an eyebrow at him.

“This dagger,” Zevran said without waiting for an answer, glancing towards her hands, “you never use it in combat, but you don’t sell it either. Why bother with it?”

Keerla looked down and turned said dagger into her hands. The rust had taken over parts of the blade, no matter how much she tried to polish it away. The hilt was buffed by numerous hands and even more years. “It was my mother’s,” she said.

“Ah, I see. Does it have a name?”

“It…” She paused. She realised she’d never said it out loud before. “It’s called Fang,” she finally breathed.

Zevran hummed his approval. “I have a few of those as well. Keepsakes. Tokens of the past, as it were.” He made a vague gesture towards his ear, but he dropped his hand before Keerla could draw any conclusion.

“Yeah.” She shrugged, thumb sliding over the unsharpened blade. “I do have a good memory, but…”

“But if I cannot see it, is it really there? Has it really happened?” Zevran completed. His gaze was unfocused, head hung low. Keerla thought she saw his fingers twitching in his lap.

“Something like that,” she murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmm canon says Tabris only gets Fang when she goes back to the alienage at the end of the game, but let's just pretend she has it from the beginning hey? Who even cares for canon in 2018. Grow up.
> 
> Find more about Keerla Tabris over [here](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/keerla-tabris)!


	27. Remember, you have to remember.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iyandrar Lavellan has to face the fact that he might've been wrong.

Iyandrar was starting to feel a headache coming. “Remember, you have to remember,” he muttered to himself.

“Problem, Amatus?”

Iyandrar looked up. Dorian was standing in front of him, across from the desk, a pile of books balanced on his forearm. Iyandrar leaned forward, arms crossed on the table, and closed his eyes. “There was this mosaic, in the temple we found last week. I know it has something to do with Sylaise, the Heartkeeper, but I can’t remember what tale it’s linked to.” He let his head fall heavily onto his crossed arms.

“Couldn’t you find it in a book?” Dorian asked above him. “The Skyhold library is rather well-stocked.”

Iyandrar shook his head, forehead rubbing against the fabric of his sleeves. “I can’t. It’s all oral history, it’s never written down, just passed from clans to clans.”

“I see. Shouldn’t you ask for a courier, then? Send a message to your clan, and ask for their opinion?”

Iyandrar whined, high-pitched and long and far too dramatic. “Dontwanna.” he added at the end.

“Pardon?”

Iyandrar raised from his arms and threw his weight back so that his butt was barely resting on the chair, back curved. He looked up at Dorian. “I don’t want to. I’ll do it,” he added when Dorian frowned, “but I’m going to hate every second of it.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were in good terms with your clan.” He adjusted the books on his arm with his free hand.

Iyandrar waved dismissively. “Meh, more like I’m not in bad terms.”

“In that case, why wouldn’t you want to contact them?”

Iyandrar grimaced. “Because the Keeper always said that I should pay more attention to her tales, and I always responded that I knew them all perfectly?”

Dorian laughed brightly, head thrown back. The book at the top of his pile slipped and he only caught it at the last moment by the tip of his fingers.

Iyandrar snorted. “Oh, don’t lecture me on pride, _Serah Better Than All Of You_.”

Dorian blinked, squinted, and finally smiled easily. “I’ll allow it.”


	28. I felt it. You know what I mean.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well this is just a sad sad chapter that takes place a few decades after Keerla Tabris’s death... cw for grief.

Alistair waits for the morning sermon to be over before he slips out of the castle. He pulls a hood over his face and walks close to the walls in hurried steps.

No one stops him when he enters the alienage. The elves stare and scatter in wariness at the hooded stranger, but Cyrion walks up to him with no hesitation.

He is weaker now, uses a stick to steady himself. His hair has gone white a long time ago, but he still stands tall whenever anything threatens his people.

“Your Majesty,” he whispers, “is something wrong?”

“No. I’m here for your daughter.”

Cyrion nods slowly. “I see. I’ll keep the children away.”

Alistair thanks him, eyes already darting to the statue standing on the other side of the street, not far from the Tree of the People.

The statue is getting a little less shiny every year, apart from its pedestal. Children come sit by her feet, Cyrion reported, they bring flowers and trinkets, and they leave them for her.

There’s children there now. They’re playing some kind of hand game, singing in unison. They lift their heads when Cyrion calls their names, and obediently scurry off at his demand.

Alistair hoists himself up and sits by her feet. The statue is big, at least twice the size that the real Keerla used to be, and there’s a small engraving at the bottom. It reads _Keerla Tabris, never forgotten_. Alistair swipes his thumb over the inscription.

“Hello, my love,” he murmurs.

He closes his eyes tightly, eyebrows knit together. There’s no tears. He hasn’t cried for her in many years. He lets his head fall, and the heavy hood falls farther down in front of his face too. He braces his hands on each side of his hips, fingernails scrapping the smoothed stone.

“It’s coming.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “It started yesterday. It was like a... a freezing arrow twisting in my stomach.” He can’t hold back a spasm in his gut, and winces at the memory. “I felt it. You know what I mean.” He can’t bring himself to say it out loud. He hasn’t told anyone yet, but it’s there.

The Calling. His fingertips growing cold, the veins on his forearms turning ever-so-slightly grey. The edge of his vision darker than it should be.

“I don’t know how much longer I have. I contacted Wardens all around Thedas over the years, and they don't know."

He twists and looks up at Keerla’s stone face. Around it, her hair is long and free, just as long as it was before she cut it, on the night of the Battle of Denerim. The stone there has a red tinge, from children of the alienage climbing when adults ain’t looking, and smearing bright red dirt over her hair.

 _Never forgotten_.

At least for this generation she isn’t. Cyrion makes sure of it. He tells tales of Keerla to the children, of her bright hair and the fire of her temper.

Alistair has been to one such evening, where Cyrion sits the children down and tells the story of the Hero of Ferelden. He wore a hood to hide both face and tears.

Now, by the statue’s feet, he sighs. “I wish you were here. It feels like it would be...easier. Everything, not just the Calling. I wish–"

And suddenly, it’s there again. Freezing arrow point in his gut, piercing and shredding. He gasps. Curls in on himself. His vision goes blurry for a second, and then it’s over. He wipes tears of pain from his cheeks with a trembling hand.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Cyrion talking to the children, but he’s got his attention on him. Alistair waves vaguely at him, and he turns back.

Alistair lets himself slide off the pedestal. He turns back towards it, rests fisted hands on it, before forcing them to uncurl and lay flat. He closes his eyes. “I’ll see you soon,” he lowers his forehead against the cold stone, “my love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find out more about Keerla Tabris over [here](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/keerla-tabris)!


	29. At least it can't get any worse.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric spins tales at the Hanged Man.

Varric leans forward in his chair, the wood creaking under him. His audience does the same, mesmerised, and from where Hawke is standing it looks like a swirl of water with Varric at its centre. “… and then Hawke said, at least it can’t get any worse!”

The crowd erupts in delighted laughter, their collective shape uncurling and moving free.

“What happened next!”

Varric stands up and turns to the young man who just talked. The audience murmurs. “I’m tired.” Protests rise around him. He lifts his hands palms forward in defence. “Come back tomorrow, and I’ll tell you what happened next,” he promises.

He weaves his way through the small crowd, nodding at the occasional comment and encouragentn thrown at him. He joins Hawke in the dark corner he was looking on from. People’s gazes land on him, but no one dares come closer.

“It’s not like you to cut a story in half,” Hawke notes, handing a cup of ale to him.

The alcohol spills over when Varric grabs it, and he pauses to drink a few gulps while scanning the still-gathered mass of his audience. “I haven’t figured out how the story goes after that,” he mutters.

Hawke gasps theatrically, hand flying to his chest. “But I’m hanging from a cliff!”

Varric shrugs without looking at him. “Sounds like a you problem.”


	30. Do we really have to do this again?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keerla Tabris trains with Alistair with an unexpected fierceness.

Alistair’s back hit the ground for the third time, dirt flying around him. He coughed, and whined when he saw Keerla’s extended hand. “Do we really have to do this again?” He looked up at her, eyes pleading.

“Yes.” She grabbed his hand without waiting for his answer and dragged him up. He looked as surprised by her strength as he always seemed to be.

“Wait!” he shouted as Keerla gripped a dagger in each hand and positioned herself for combat. “Wait!” he repeated, diverting her first blow with his shield.

“You,” she slashed again, barely missing his arm, “need to learn,” she whirled around him, “how to protect your flanks.” She immobilised in a heartbeat, right dagger scrapping a leather piece covering Alistair’s side. He let his arms fall from their defensive posture.

“Alright, I get it!”

Keerla straightened up, pushing wet hair from her face with the hilt of her knife. “You don’t.” She rolled her shoulders and flipped her daggers, circling Alistair slowly.

He let both sword and shield clatter to the ground.

“You–”

Alistair stopped her with a gesture. “I won’t fight you until you tell me what this is about.”

Keerla waved her daggers in the air, powerless. Her eyes were stinging. “You need to learn how to protect your flanks!” she repeated, voice hoarse.

“Keerla–”

Her fingers clenched on the hilt of her daggers. She hated this. Before she could even realise she was doing it, she whirled around and threw both blades towards the nearest tree trunk. They hit it with a thump, notching firmly into the bark.

Frustration was heavy in her throat. She screamed.

“Keerla.” Alistair’s voice was soft. It felt like a cold hand on a feverish forehead. She turned to him, breath still shuddering, but her fists were uncurling on their own.

“You could’ve died,” she breathed.

“When?”

“This morning.” She closed her eyes. “Darkspawn at the farm. There was a Shriek. It would have killed you, if Leliana hadn’t seen it first.”

Alistair sounded surprised. “I’m lucky she did, then.”

“YOU NEED TO LEARN TO PROTECT YOUR FLANKS,” Keerla shouted. She felt a few warm tears roll down her cheeks, and she wiped them hurriedly. “It was so close,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry.”

“It can’t happen again. Alistair, I…” She shook her head, incapable of meeting his gaze. “My mum was a good fighter. But she never protected her flanks enough.”

“Is it what…what happened to her?”

Keerla ran a trembling hand over her face. “I don’t know what happened to her. I know that she was killed, and she might not have been if she’d kept an eye on her sides.”

“I’m sorry,” Alistair repeated. He pulled Keerla into a hesitant hug. “I promise I’ll listen to your advice.”

“You can’t die,” she muttered into his chestplate. “Not you too.”

“I’ll do my best.” He kissed the top of her head, and she melted a bit more into his embrace, matching her breathing to his.

“Will you let me teach you how to protect your flanks?” she finally asked in a small voice.

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find out more about Keerla Tabris over [here](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/keerla-tabris)!


	31. I've waited so long for this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iyandrar Lavellan just got assigned the role of Inquisitor, and he's already realising that responsibilities might not actually be as much fun as he used to think...

“So. You’re the Inquisitor, then.”

Iyandrar glanced at Vivienne, before turning his attention back to the blinding snow covering Skyhold’s roofs. “Looks like it,” he said flatly.

She stood by his side and mirrored his posture, letting both forearms rest on the stone balustrade and tangling her fingers together. She made it look far more natural and dainty all at once, obviously.

Iyandrar sighed.

“I’ve waited so long for this,” he declared, half to himself and half to Vivienne.

She hummed an interrogation.

“The duty,” Iyandrar said. “The people looking up to me, waiting for my commands.” He shook his head.

There was a smile in Vivienne’s voice when she spoke. “And how does it feel?” she enquired.

He grimaced, looking for the right words. “I hate it,” he said after a pause.

“Oh?”

“It’s far too much responsibility, I…” he paused. “Look down there.”

Vivienne followed his gesture towards the Courtyard. There were forty, fifty people maybe, carrying chests and leading horses to a crumbling building that might one day become stables.

“There’s the same amount of people here than in my entire clan,” Iyandrar continued. “A year ago, I hadn’t even seen a bigger crowd.” He watched as a dozen warriors in gear emerged from the Great Hall and mingled with the rest.

“I see.”

“And now I am supposed to lead them.” He let his head fall against his forearm with no semblance of gentleness. He could already feel his ears buzzing from the anxiety of it all.

“More will come,” Vivienne professed. “They will flock around you, like moths to a torch.”

Iyandrar groaned.

“Power does not have to be your burden, my dear. You can learn to make it dance for you. You can get anything you want.”

“Except not being the Inquisitor anymore,” he murmured.

“You’ll be just fine,” she said in a tone like a promise. “And should you ever require some high society advice, or a listening ear, you know who to ask for.”

He smiled faintly. “I do. Thank you, Vivienne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dudes I DID IT! 31 prompts (mostly) written and published on time! This entire thing was so much fun, and I've discovered tons about my OCs [Keerla](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/keerla-tabris) and [Iyandrar](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/iyandrar-lavellan)...  
> Thank you so much if you've been following this project, I hope you had fun as well :)  
> One last thing: all of my fanfics are posted on my [writing blog](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/), where you can also send me prompts! Don't be shy, this is all a brand new set-up and I still haven't received anything... I hope to hear from you over there!


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